


Silk Burn

by ilija



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Mild Blood, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 02:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8039848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilija/pseuds/ilija
Summary: Her hip is a ghost against his grasp.





	Silk Burn

She’s beautiful, iridescent as emeralds, reminiscent of princesses from tales of indescribable beauty. Her hair is thick and flows gently like waterfalls into a stream and when he reaches out to touch it, it cuts his fingers. Kyouka Suigetsu, she purrs, velvet wrapped around barbed wire, “What’s the little garden pest doing intruding in my world?” Shinsou’s teeth are bared but he makes no movement.

“To talk, but I don’t think it’ll be that easy.”

“You came here looking for a fight?”

“No, it found me.”

She perks up, eyes brightening behind her rich emerald fan. “Oh, that’s brave of you.”

“Right,” he reaches for her obi, her katana strapped securely to her hip. “And only a coward would back down from a battle.” The cloth feels silky and rich under his fingertips.

Then she’s gone, transporting herself a good ten meters away, hovering over the lotus pond that punctuates the middle of the garden scenery. “Don’t touch me with those dirty fingers.”

Her hip is a ghost against his grasp.

“I can’t talk to you from over here, Princess.”

“You have zero class, much like that scrap of boy you call ‘master’. Does he really think he can kill Aizen-sama?”

“He will.”

“You jest.” Her eyes, pretty and heavy with kohl and paint, narrow to slits and she snaps her fan shut. “You’ve come here solely to annoy me. Your front isn’t impressive.” 

Her lips are a perpetual pout. Shinsou, he wants to wipe her smug indifference towards his efforts off of her face and onto the floor. He moves to stand on the slight wall above the pond, his cape billowing from a gust of wind. 

“If I wanted to annoy you, I’d have my sword out by now.”

“No, if you were a fool you would do so. Don’t let my estimate of you sink any further,” his eye twitches at her barbed words. She’s so insolent, every picture of the spoiled rotten princess touched by nothing but Aizen’s gentle hands. He, on the other hand, has no soft recollection of Aizen’s hands; every time Aizen enters the room Shinsou thrums lowly in warning, heady with caution and adrenaline. She, in much the same way, makes him dizzy with the lust for power, the crossing of forged steel. So he smiles, much to her dismay. “What are you grinning about?”

“I won’t even need to draw my sword around you.” Kyouka narrows her eyes.

“Go on,” she straightens to her full height from her head to her bun. She taps her smirk with the fan. “A demonstration. Subdue me, if you will.” In a single snap the fan opens in a green flash; the folded paper obscures her smile.

Shinsou steps onto the surface of the pond which surprisingly only wavers under his foot, like walking on sand. The koi open and shut their mouths and flutter about under his sure pace. Only a few drops of water stick to the soles of his sandals on every step.

When he reaches outward to catch the fluttering hem of her kimono, the silk folds cut his thumb and finger and he tugs. Insulted, she kicks his foot away and looks down at him in scorn. “You can’t touch me, you little nuisance.”

So she thinks, Shinsou’s grin splits his face and his one unharmed hand grabs her by the ankle and  _ pulls _ , this time with enough force to slice his palm. Droplets splatter onto the sleeve of his joue, staining white with crimson in droplets spreading across like watercolors; the irony is not lost on him.

Kyouka’s surprise lasts the span of a blink, golden eyes widening then narrowing as light glints off of her irises like the fractured light atop the pond. His own pupils dilate-- _ caught you _ . “Oh, seems her Highness talks big but can’t handle a little snake brushing against her foot.”

If she hits him, his heart will be impaled; if she doesn’t, she still has full control, so Shinsou knows she has _allowed_ him to rest his bleeding palm against the side of her waist. The other is raised, poised to cradle porcelain or glass; Kyouka rests her hand there with all the ease of a summer shower.

They start a dance over the pond, his large hand enveloping her delicate one and his other one placed so securely at the base of her spine that they almost locked together like a jigsaw puzzle. Kyouka’s smile flickers to demure and he tries not to step on her feet.

The slow waltz is precarious, they’re balanced on a razor’s edge. Kyouka’s hand cuts into his, so he grips tighter and half spins on his toe, sending her robes twirling, opening, a flower to the morning dew.

“Maybe your hands have touched a sword or two after all?” Her smile reeks of mirth.

“There are a  _ lot _ of unbelievable things in this world, Princess,” Light glances off of a single fang; Kyouka flips open her fan once more and raises one dashed eyebrow into a perfect arch.

“I suppose that explains my existence--something untouchable, not even by you.”

“I don’t aim to match, I aim to win.” Blood seeps out and between his fingers when he squeezes her hand. The pond tints red with every drop and the slumbering koi awaken to investigate. In retaliation Kyouka swivels around in his grip and folds in on herself, one arm clutched close to her breasts to keep the fan blocking her face, the other resting lightly on the shredded pads on Shinsou’s guiding fingers. They step.

“A lady of the house must be won over, isn’t that right?”

"Oh-- stop talking for a moment and enjoy the dance.”

_ Whatever you say, Princess _ .

They leave a swirling pattern of blood floating in the pond; the koi follow behind their flowing pace as they would the spring currents. Kyouka, her hair flutters around her face and blends in with the gaping black of Shinsou’s cape. Despite his bloody scabbing fingertips, his hand remains in contact with hers; her furisode is soft against his lye-scrub rough joue.

Kyouka does not dance the waltz. She does not unearth creatures from under the flowerbed to watch them writhe under the sun for the first time. She sits and drinks tea with Aizen-sama; she marvels at her own reflection in the pond for days. But Shinsou, he slinks into her palace all grace and venom and snatches her up, wrapping and molding himself to her form until she sinks to the ground.

Only metaphorically at least. In real time Kyouka spins Shinsou away from her in a flurry of fabric and punctuating splashes of water as Shinsou catches his balance. His socks are soaked and the noise as he walks closer again disgusts Kyouka.

“Never again shall you fly by me, little bug.”

“If the garden is my home then I can’t help if I cross the path every now and again.” Kyouka glares, sharp as her touch.

“You fancy yourself a philosopher.”

“I fancy myself smarter than you give me credit for.”

“I give you  _ nothing _ , snake.”

“I desire nothing more from you,” Shinsou keeps her on edge in his own way; not used to being argued with, Kyouka snaps her fan shut and lets the tip brush against her cheek, one hand poised to brush a lock of hair away from her matte-heavy lips.

“You are poisoning my pond,” Kyouka nods to his red-sticky hands. 

“You’re poisoning my fun,” this time she doesn’t move when he molds his palms to her tiny waist, his fingers stretched across her lower back. The fresh blood soaks into the black of her obi, shows up cutting and bright against the gold leaf pattern, but no space for escape exists between his hands and her clothes. Everything is warm against his palms, even the sheath of her katana. No blood stains the pond; the koi linger in their shadows.

 

*

 

Before he leaves, Kyouka sits in perfect seiza, passing him only a roll of gauze. “Every time you touch me you will hurt. I take no responsibility for your actions.”

From behind the sliding bamboo door Kyouka sees him off, his lantern and satchel with the gauze and a bar of soap the only belongings that he carries. She gives him no food and he asks for no water. She can’t see his expression under the brim of his hat but the smell of the pipe he smokes sinks into her furisode.

“Put your shoes on, you’ll get a cold.” Kyouka looks thoroughly offended.

“You have zero room to comment about my state of dress when you look like nothing but a common peasant.”

“You won’t say my name any time soon, will you,” Shinsou’s sentence drops without punctuation, leaving it open for her to answer. Behind the thin screen of smoke he could look wistful, if she squinted. Nose upturned, she touches her fan to her right cheek and huffs, “Why should I even bother with a man who only mocks my title? I don’t name every little bug in my garden.”

“It’s  _ Shinsou _ .”

“Mushinsou.” Her indignance at the end of these trysts doesn’t disturb him; his lantern light will always find the way to her doorsteps again. Shinsou doesn’t look back as he treads back up his mountain path; it’s always the ascent that’s hardest.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Joue is a type of garb that Shinto priests wear.  
> \- Mushi = bug.  
> \- My personal headcanon is that nobody can touch Kyouka without being cut as if from a sword. The only exception is, of course, Aizen.
> 
> I wrote this out in one night out of complete thirst and I would not be surprised if more happens in the future. Hope you enjoyed. Self-beta'd, as always.


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